had to undertake the
duties of so many others, rotten. Empty and rather sick, and, well,
generally beastly--a sort of vague funk. Yes, by Jove! He was in a
regular blue funk! That was what was wrong with him. (But he certainly
felt sick too.)

What on earth was he afraid of? The service couldn't last for ever,
and he had barred speeches at the Collation (as Mrs. Mangan insisted
on calling it). His thoughts took a twist. Surely he wasn't afraid of
the Mangans? He liked Mrs. Mangan; he was quite fond of her, quite a
good sort of mother-in-law she'd make. And Barty, his best man, good
old Barty! And the Doctor--Of course he wasn't afraid of the Doctor
either. He had always liked him. There only remained Tishy. Hang it
all! He wasn't afraid of the girl he was going to marry! She might
have a bit of a temper--she certainly had been rather rattled these
last few days, but you couldn't blame her for that. The very last time
he had seen her--the evening before the big storm began, wasn't
it?--he had overtaken her in the dark in the Mall, going home after
shopping, and that long-legged cad of a fellow, Cloherty, carrying her
parcels for her. By Jove! She had let drive at him after Cloherty had
gone and they were in the house! By Jove, yes! He laughed a little at
the remembrance. She had said it was a nice time of day for him to be
coming over. She had jolly nearly cried, she was so mad with him. For
the life of him he didn't know why. But, after all, that wasn't
exactly temper.--Blowed if he knew what it was. He supposed it was
temperament--quite a different thing! He laughed and had a look at a
large and splendid photograph of Miss Mangan, that had been a sort of
corollary of the Dublin trousseau. Tishy was all right. Tishy was a
topper! He said it aloud, and, with that, another tune, the old
nigger-tune, "Nelly was a Lady," fitted itself absurdly to the words.

"Tishy was a topper!" he sang. "Last night she--No, she didn't! By
Jove, there's the motor! What's it coming at this hour for?"

He watched the car turn into the wide sweep in front of the house, and
wheel round it, and draw up at the foot of the hall-door steps. It
looked like the car he had hired, he knew the shover's face, but there
was someone in it. He saw, with pleasure, that it was Barty who was in
the car. Good old Barty, come over early to buck him up a bit. Larry
sprang to the door, and as he opened it, Barty was coming up the
steps. He stood still on the